Page 43 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
Isaak’s gaze lingers on her, assessing, as though trying to decipher her.
Yet his attention shifts to the man at her side, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something deadly beneath it.
Piper sits quietly, dressed much as I am, her ginger hair neatly plaited. A book lies open in her lap, and she seems wholly absorbed in its pages.
“Grant me the patience not to murder this man here and now,” Octavia mutters under her breath, just for me. “Far too many witnesses, and not even father could sweep it away.”
I follow the line of her glare. Milo is sprawled lazily in his seat, grinning at her, clearly savouring every ounce of her irritation.
I shake my head with a laugh. “I wouldn’t allow you to commit murder in broad daylight. So for now, you’re safe.”
“Oh? But you’d turn a blind eye if it were done under cover of night? Good to know,” she smirks.
“Why are they here?” I ask, lowering my voice.
“Because their friend is playing, I suppose.”
“No,” I murmur, “I meant here. These are the Circle’s benches.”
“Ah.” She sneers towards Adelaide. “Apparently there’s some sort of truce now.”
As if sensing the weight of Octavia’s glare, Adelaide turns, catches our eyes, and raises her middle finger in Octavia’s direction. My sister only rolls her eyes in response.
The game begins, and the stands erupt as St. Monarché scores the opening goal against Velmark.
The atmosphere is electric, shouts, chants, and stamping feet rolling across the pitch. Just as the whistle blows for half time, Octavia rises abruptly from her seat.
“I’ll fetch drinks. What do you want?”
“Water.”
She scrunches her nose. “You’re so dull,” she says with a laugh, and disappears into the crowd.
She returns a few minutes later, pressing a bottle of water into my hand and holding up a luridly red punch for herself, so sweet and artificial it can only be liquid sugar.
The match resumes. Time slips by.
I watch Arlo play, and I can’t deny it, he’s extraordinary. His speed, his precision, the way he commands the field, he could go professional one day.
Not that I know much about football. Still, the way he moves, the strength, is impossible to miss. Every line of muscle strains beneath his kit.
He’s the sort of man girls dream about.
Just not me.
Liar.
I’m watching him so closely I hardly notice when someone slips into the empty seat beside me.
I glance up and find Marcel there, smiling down at me. My brows pull together in surprise, he doesn’t usually approach me, and I can’t say I like that he’s begun to now.
“Hi,” he says easily.
“Hi,” I return.
“Good match,” he remarks.
I nod, polite but noncommittal.
